The Collectibles Read Free

howl.
    â€œYou know what you say sometimes about there being truth up here,” Joe said. “What’s that mean, truth in these mountains?”
    Howard was a full-sized man who, when his head was not bent down lookin’ for snakes, stood six-foot-five inches tall. He wore hunting pants held up by a two-inch-wide, forty-six-inch leather belt slightly curved at the top and bottom and fastened by an honest brass buckle. Not the fancy rodeo type but a simple brass square with three prongs to pass the leather through and hitch to the holes. His shirt was soft wool with flaps over each breast pocket. Over that he wore a weathered deerskin jacket that hung below his waist and just the tops of bright red socks that Joe’s Aunt Lettie had knitted showing over his high leather boots.
    â€œWell, son, these hills don’t lie. They’re beautiful, but they ain’t forgiving. If you make a mistake up here, you can die. Animals make mistakes and die all the time. Men, too. Only the strong survive, the ones that protect themselves. It ain’t just the animals; you can see it in the fish in the streams and in the trees. It can be cold and raw and windy and whipped. It can also be calm and clear like tonight. There is a certain . . . I don’t know, what you might call
rhythm
to it all up here. I have seen it all my life. The animals know it. The woods know it. No one’s fooling anybody up here. It is what it is. Treat the mountains and the animals with respect, listen to them, and be prepared, and you’ll be all right, and never alone. If you don’t, you won’t. That’s what I mean about there being a truth up here.”
    Howard pulled the collar of his jacket around his weathered neck while at the same time using the toe of his right boot to nudge a log in the fire. No matter how many times Joe tried, he was never able to make a fire grow better with the slight nudge of a log. He watched Howard carefully remove his red and tan cap and brush his hand over his balding head and then criss-cross his chin.
    Howard caught Joe’s look. “How you doin’, son?” When Howard asked you how you were doing, it was a big question, not to be taken lightly but answered straight out.
    Joe thought for a while and tried his foot on a log, which promptly caused four other logs to fall away from the fire. After he’d gotten them all back in place, he replied, “I’m all right, Uncle Howard, I guess.”
    Howard seemed to ponder that answer as he rose and selected four nearby sticks, looking them over as if only those four would do. The ritual was familiar to Joe as he watched his uncle unsheathe his hunting knife and, using the handle, pound the sticks into the ground, each a yard from the fire. Next, Howard sat down on a log he had pulled up to the fire and slowly unlaced his boots, placing them upside down on the sticks. Then he removed his wool socks and hung them up to dry as well.
    It was Howard who’d given Joe his first pair of high leather boots. “Them boots are your foundation in these hills,” he told Joe. “Take care of ’em, they’ll serve you well.”
    Joe stared at the fire, not moving.
    Howard looked at Joe again and asked, “What’s botherin’ you, son?”
    â€œWell, to tell you the truth, Uncle Howard, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and, no matter how much I think about it, I really can’t change.”
    â€œCan’t change what?” Howard asked in a gentle tone.
    Joe’s eyes continued to lock into the fire. He heard what Uncle Howard had asked, but no words came out in response. Just silence. Howard simply waited and, finally, Joe looked up from the fire and directly into Howard’s eyes. “Can’t change the fact that I’m average, and I’m always going to be average.”
    More silence.
    Howard finally stood up, walked over to Joe and, kneeling down, put his hand on